


height difference

by yonderingly



Category: TREASURE (Korea Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and kim junkyu just wants his shirt back, happy pride month!!, height difference so shirt size difference as well?, idk just read, mashiho is whipped guys, mashikyu, pls enjoy this bc idk how to tag!!, shirt exchange, this was really short but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24534499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderingly/pseuds/yonderingly
Summary: Takata Mashiho accidentally switches P.E. shirts with annoyingly cute ex-crush and classmate Kim Junkyu. Embarrassed (and disappointed in getting rid of the comfy feeling of Junkyu’s oversized shirt), he retreats to a shower stall to change and reflect on his revisiting feelings for the latter.
Relationships: Kim Junkyu/Takata Mashiho
Comments: 1
Kudos: 90





	height difference

**Author's Note:**

> the ending kinda sucks and the title is kinda eh but i’m still confident about this work so <3 pls enjoy!!

The gym showers suck.

Mashiho knows this because Physical Education forces every fourth year student to participate in the lamest games of dodgeball, and playing dodgeball for 50 minutes straight is tiring. By the end of fourth period (which is P.E.), everyone in class darts to the gym showers in order to rinse all the stinking body sweat off their bodies—and with his tiny, short stature, Mashiho always manages to win the first spot in the lineup for the showers.

But even after always getting first access in everything, he’s still ungrateful because the shower heads barely even work. It’s, like, half of the holes on every fucking shower head are fake and they’re just there for display because the water comes out like piss. The amount of times that Mashiho had to switch stalls midway into showering _bare naked,_ because the shower head is either not cooperating or there’s just simply no water at all, is _dreadful,_ and he ultimately wishes to never shower there ever again.

However, he’s got no other choice but to do so because P.E. is always fourth subject and they have a fifteen-minute grace period before the bell rings for the next (Social Studies). He’s got no choice because he doesn’t want to get made fun of for smelling like grass, sweat, and sun. Does the sun have a smell? He doesn’t know, but whatever that unidentified smell is, it’s bad.

And currently, he’s rinsing himself from the icky, sweaty feeling of being under the sun for almost an hour. The water from the shower head is once again coming out like piss, despite how disgustingly vivid that description is, and after a few more minutes of rinsing the same spot on his body, he’s finally done.

He turns the shower head off and dries himself with the towel. Then, he snatches his white P.E. uniform off the rack, dresses himself, and exits the shower stall.

He walks down the steamed hall and marches over to the sink area in his wet flip flops. As he hoists his duffel bag on the seemingly dry countertop and looks at his reflection in the mirror, he freezes.

Something isn’t right, nor does something _feel_ right either—Mashiho looks different in some weird way, except for the water droplets that slowly stream down the sides of his head, his wet dark brown hair, and his usual amiable face tilted to the side to show signs of bewilderment. As he takes in another three seconds of observing his hazy reflection, he finally realizes what feels so damn wrong.

Head still tilted, his eyes shoot wide open. Then, he jumps a little bit backwards as he inspects his shirt: oversized, sparkly white, and with the same high school logo on the leftmost side of the uniform—but this isn’t his size. Moreover, this isn’t his shirt.

Perhaps if he turns around and takes a peek at the printed class number at the back of the uniform, then _maybe_ he can figure out which classmate it belongs to. So he does. He turns his back to the mirror and slowly cranks his neck to the side to get a glimpse of the class number: 1... 6? 16?

Mashiho takes one more look before arriving to a conclusion. The number is, in fact, 16, and as he counts down from his class number of 34, matching the succeeding numbers with every classmate, someone speaks beside him and completely disrupts his train of thoughts.

“Hey... isn’t that my shirt?”

Startled, Mashiho inches away from the boy who now stands beside him: Kim Junkyu. His usual fluffy hair is tousled and almost dried and he’s in the same getup as Mashiho, the only difference being the purple towel wrapped around the taller boy’s naked torso. Upon realization, the brunette nervously grabs his duffel bag and slowly nods his head.

“I-I think so...” he stutters, his eyes clumsily falling down to Junkyu’s covered chest area and going back up to meet his eyes. The way he somehow managed to grab the wrong P.E. shirt still confuses him, but he’s even more flustered at the fact that ex-crush Junkyu is currently standing in front of him. “I-I’ll give it back... O-One second.”

As he shoulders the duffel bag and prepares to run back to the showers, Junkyu puts a hand on his back. Mashiho spins around to question, but he sees Junkyu holding a similar P.E. shirt before he can even do so. The brunette nods, awkwardly gets his shirt from the boy’s hold, then dashes to a shower stall without another word.

Mashiho takes refuge in the dark stall at the very back of the bathroom. He hangs his duffel bag on the door hook and quickly undresses himself. In a matter of seconds, he has finally changed.

He rests his hand on the doorknob, but a voice at the back of his head convinces him to stall for a little bit longer. Before he goes back out, his mind annoyingly flutters to the freshman memories with Kim Junkyu.

Despite the constant in denial of feelings from four years ago, Mashiho’s subconscious knew exactly what his heart screamed for. His feelings were a mix of school, family, dancing, and Junkyu—and a little bit of singing here and there too. He was positive that the boy never saw him the same way he did (which is a total bummer), but Mashiho can only blame himself for not confessing beforehand.

Soon, his feelings vanished in a snap of a finger, and he went back to seeing Kim Junkyu as normal: still cute, but just a perfectionist of a classmate from a few classes who sit three—maybe four—desks away from him.

But once again, his subconscious knows better, and maybe Kim Junkyu hit something buried deep in Mashiho’s heart way back in ninth grade, because all the times Mashiho encounters the annoyingly cute boy from P.E., he’s always seemingly left as a blushing mess.

And maybe this quite embarrassing shirt exchange will be the final push to reopening what Kim Junkyu once hit; Mashiho knows well enough from Health class that it’s bad to reopen wounds, but thank the Heavens that this isn’t nowhere near a wound—it’s a bloodied cavern twisted in every artery, capillary, and vein in his being, filled with the most powerful of emotions, and such emotions he wants to feel every second of the day all because of one single person.

He shakes his head. Mashiho grabs his duffel bag and unlocks the door, once again walking down the shower hall but now in his semi-dry flip flops. He sees Junkyu leaning against the counter on his phone, and with a nervous gulp down his throat, he approaches the topless boy and hands him his shirt.

Junkyu looks up from his phone then pockets it. He grabs his P.E. shirt from Mashiho’s grasp, his fingers slightly grazing over the shorter boy’s, and buries the apparel in his own sports bag.

“Thank you. I thought I lost it,” he thanks before Mashiho can apologize.

The brunette shakes his head once more as he waves both of his hands to dismiss Junkyu’s claim.

“No— I mean, _you’re welcome,_ but it was my fault!” he squeaks. “I grabbed the wrong shirt and put it on without checking. I’m sorry.”

Junkyu reciprocates his actions by waving his own hands to dismiss his apology.

“Ah, it’s alright. Dodgeball does things to people, like hit their head and stuff— wait, did you hit your head?”

For some reason unknown to mankind, Mashiho lets out a giggle. In response to his blurt, he mentally face-palms himself.

“No, I didn’t hit my head. Thank you for asking, though.”

Surprisingly, Junkyu giggles as well, but much softer and less noticeable. Then, he sends him a cute dimpled smile.

The boy’s eyes widen again. His belly erupts with butterflies and his heart thumps in his ribcage as a newfound feeling surfaces on his chest to make it ache. Shakily, he returns the smile, and after a few seconds, is now left alone in the sink area as Junkyu waves him goodbye and retracts to a shower stall to put on his shirt.

Mashiho lets out the breath he’s been unknowingly holding. He looks at the steamed mirror, inspects his blurred reflection, then walks out of the shower room.

Junkyu’s shirt was undeniably comfortable, but at least now he won’t be dress coded.


End file.
